“Sister… I am so weary.”

  “Endure a little longer, Yung-er. Just a few more steps.”

  “What is the point? Even the moon hides behind clouds tonight.”

  “Yung-er, we must hurry—before those creatures return.”

  “Sister… should we not leave him here?”

  The younger girl’s voice trembled, but her small hands did not loosen their grip on the litter’s rear pole.

  “Yung-er,” the elder answered, sweat tracing lines down her brow as she strained forward, “have you forgotten Grandfather’s teaching? We do not abandon a fellow human in need—especially one so grievously wounded—when aid lies within our power.”

  “Hmph…” Yung-er muttered, yet she leaned her weight into the effort.

  Two girls—fifteen and thirteen—bore the makeshift litter along the narrow, stony path, their steps careful in the clouded dark.

  Upon the litter lay Han Sen, robes crusted with earth and blood, unconscious, breath shallow as a dying flame.

  Only after the enemy had departed did the Art of Vanishing release its hold, revealing him once more.

  “Tang-er! Yung-er! Who do you carry?” an old voice called as the gate creaked open.

  A weathered man stood framed in lantern light, eyes widening at the sight.

  “Grandfather!” Tang-er answered, voice bright with relief. “We found him in the forest while gathering moon fungi.”

  The younger girl added, sulky yet proud, “Sister insisted on bringing him home. We gathered scarcely any fungi because of it.”

  The old man waved a hand. “Fungi matter not at all. To save a life—that is the true harvest. Bring him inside.”

  They carried Han Sen into the humble dwelling and laid him gently upon the kang.

  The girls fetched warm water, loosening blood-stiffened robes, wiping away grime and crimson with careful hands.

  “Grandfather,” Tang-er said, holding up the yellow bamboo staff, “this lay beside him.”

  The old man’s breath caught.

  “Sky Bamboo…” he whispered, eyes wide with wonder. “Where did you find such a treasure?”

  “Beside the youth. That is why I insisted we help him.”

  The elder examined Han Sen’s broken body—ribs cracked, shoulder shattered, flesh torn.

  “Grievous wounds,” he murmured. “Quickly—brew the bone-mending draught! Cleanse the bamboo!”

  Tang-er hurried to obey.

  “So many fractures,” Yung-er said softly. “Will he heal?”

  “You do not yet understand,” the grandfather replied, voice low with awe. “This is no ordinary bamboo. Watch.”

  Soon Tang-er returned—steaming jug in one hand, the cleansed staff gleaming gold and green in the other.

  The old man took the Sky Bamboo reverently.

  He poured the medicinal liquid into the upper end.

  From the lower, it flowed into a bowl—clear, fragrant, transformed.

  He handed the bowl to Tang-er.

  She knelt beside the kang, golden bamboo tube in hand, and fed the elixir slowly—spoonful by careful spoonful—into Han Sen’s parted lips.

  He swallowed in his unconsciousness, breath by breath.

  The bowl emptied.

  Then wonder unfolded.

  Before their eyes, fractured bones shifted—knitting, realigning with faint cracks like distant thunder.

  Torn flesh drew closed.

  Bruises faded from black to purple to pale.

  Skin smoothed as though never marred.

  “Sky Bamboo,” the old man breathed, voice trembling with reverence. “All that passes through it is multiplied tenfold… a ten thousandfold. A common draught becomes divine elixir.”

  He had heard legends of Sky Bamboo all his life.

  Tonight, beneath Phoenix Mountain’s quiet gaze, he witnessed truth.

  The wounded youth lay whole once more—breath deepening, color returning to his face.

  And in the small room lit by a single lantern, three generations watched in silent awe.

  The dragon, carried home by children’s hands, began to heal.

  Dawn painted the eastern sky in soft gold when Han Sen awoke.

  He drew breath—deep, unhindered.

  Chest whole.

  Shoulders sound.

  He rotated them slowly, wonder stirring like morning mist.

  As though the night of shattering pain had been only a dream.

  Yet he lived.

  Truly restored.

  “Young one,” a gentle voice asked, “are you awake? How do you feel?”

  An elder stood beside the kang, eyes warm with concern.

  “I feel… well,” Han Sen answered, rising to perform the perfect shoubei li. “Truly well. I am Han Sen. My life is yours—I thank you from the depths of my heart.”

  The old man smiled, lines deepening around his eyes.

  “No need for such words. In truth, it was your own staff that healed you.”

  “My staff?”

  The elder held forth the yellow bamboo—now gleaming clean, gold and green catching lantern light.

  “Is this yours?”

  “Yes.”

  The old man’s gaze softened with wonder.

  “I am Kang Sin Lam. If you permit… I would buy this staff from you.”

  Just then, two young maidens entered—faces weary yet kind.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  “Grandfather!”

  “These are my granddaughters,” Kang Sin Lam said. “Kang Fei Tang, the elder, and her sister Kang In Yung.”

  Han Sen bowed. “I am Han Sen.”

  “Huuuh,” In Yung exclaimed, eyes wide. “You are truly healed? You were so heavy—Sister and I carried you all the way from the forest.”

  “Yung-er,” Fei Tang chided softly, “no need to speak of it.”

  Han Sen looked between them, gratitude and confusion mingling.

  “And you are…?”

  “This is our grandfather,” In Yung answered, pride flickering through sorrow. “Kang Sin Lam—physician known through FuFang Li and all Shennan Circuit.”

  “We often aid him with the sick,” Fei Tang added quietly.

  Her voice caught.

  “But yesterday… our home… our parents…” Tears welled. “The beasts took everything.”

  In Yung grasped her sister’s shoulder.

  Both girls wept—silent at first, then their shoulders shaking with grief too long held back.

  The elder fell silent, face carved with fresh sorrow.

  Han Sen’s heart clenched.

  Now he understood.

  These were refugees from FuFang Li.

  The village he had failed to save.

  Their earlier cheer—a fragile mask over bottomless loss.

  He, who had come to protect, now lay indebted to them—saved by a physician and two orphaned granddaughters.

  Guilt and gratitude twisted sharply within.

  He bowed low.

  “Honored doctor,” he said, voice thick, “if this golden bamboo can serve you… take it. I give it freely.”

  Kang Sin Lam’s eyes widened. “But young one—this is Sky Bamboo. Its worth is beyond measure.”

  Han Sen shook his head.

  “No treasure compares to the life you returned to me. And truly… I did not know its nature.”

  He had claimed it from a monster’s lair—blind to its true power.

  Kang Sin Lam studied him long, then nodded slowly.

  “Very well. I accept your gift with gratitude. It will save many.”

  He turned to Fei Tang.

  “Tang-er—bring one empty vial, and one of common internal balm.”

  Fei Tang obeyed swiftly.

  She placed the empty vial upon the table and held the Sky Bamboo steady.

  Kang Sin Lam poured the balm into the upper end.

  From the lower, it flowed—richer, fragrant beyond imagining.

  He held the vial forth.

  “Smell,” he said softly. “Common balm becomes divine. The bamboo multiplies virtue a thousandfold.”

  Han Sen inhaled.

  The scent carried life itself—warm, deep, promising renewal.

  Wonder filled the small room.

  Han Sen donned the clean garments the maidens had prepared—simple cotton robes, soft against newly healed skin, carrying the faint scent of boiled herbs and mountain air.

  At his waist, the mystic pouch held the divine-tier internal balm, its vial warm with promise.

  He bowed low to the aged healer.

  “Thank you once more, honored elder. But… do those creatures still roam free?”

  Kang Sin Lam’s eyes clouded, the lines upon his face deepening like cracks in old earth.

  “They do,” he answered, voice heavy with sorrow. “Our plight grows ever darker. They hold dominion over village and field alike. Few dare the roads now.”

  Han Sen’s heart tightened.

  “Then I must go,” he said, rising. “Matters demand my hand.”

  The old man nodded, understanding without words.

  Han Sen stepped into the morning light.

  On the path lay a sturdy blackwood staff—dark, thick, discarded amid scattered belongings.

  Perhaps it had belonged to some fallen soul of FuFang Li.

  Perhaps only lost.

  He took it—weight solid, reassuring in his grip.

  The village’s heart lay in ruins—homes shattered, earth scarred, silence where voices once rose.

  A troop of black-furred simians ravaged what little remained—tearing at fallen beams, feasting upon what the night had left.

  Rage rose in Han Sen—cold, righteous, edged with guilt.

  The staff spun.

  Five Thunders roared through blackwood.

  PRAAAK! PRAAKKK! PPRAAAAAAAKKKK!

  Monsters fell—swift, merciless.

  Bodies dissolved to dust before they struck ground.

  Only echoes of snarls lingered.

  Han Sen pressed onward into the forest’s shadowed embrace.

  He sought the ragged man.

  The source of the horde.

  Art of Vanishing cloaked him once more.

  Deeper he went—along the long, rising slopes of Phoenix Mountain’s range, pines thickening, air growing cooler with height.

  No sign of a human foe.

  Then it appeared.

  A crimson swirl—taller than two zhang, edges flickering like living flame, wider and hungrier than any before.

  He felt its pull—malevolent, vast. He put off the Art of Vanishing.

  Without hesitation, he stepped within.

  The realm beyond opened less dense—ancient trees spaced wider, marshes glinting amid undergrowth, meadows stretching pale on the far side.

  Monkeys swung from branches—black-furred horde descending in waves from above and below, eyes burning with unnatural hate.

  The blackwood staff danced.

  Each strike ended life with brutal grace—crack of bone, flash of thunder.

  Dust rose where flesh had been.

  Qi surged hotter within him—the nascent core blazing brighter, feeding on battle’s fury, heat radiating with every blow.

  He gave no thought to fallen foes.

  Only to the debt.

  For the ashes of FuFang Li.

  For the girls who had carried a dying stranger home.

  Han Sen wandered without a fixed path, the blackwood staff steady in his grip, senses sharp beneath the skin.

  The forest deepened—trees older, shadows thicker, air heavy with the scent of damp earth and distant decay.

  At last, the cavern mouth yawned ahead—wide, dark, exhaling cold breath from the mountain’s heart.

  The lair of the strongest.

  He stepped within.

  Light from the entrance faded swiftly.

  The chamber opened vast—stalactites dripping like slow tears, faint phosphorescence glinting upon wet stone.

  At its center waited the lord.

  A colossal simian—towering over two zhang, fur black as midnight, muscles corded like ancient roots.

  Eyes gleamed—not beast-mad, but cunning.

  Intelligent.

  Qi rolled from it in waves—vast, oppressive, a storm barely caged.

  Core Formation.

  Han Sen felt the difference like mountain weight upon his chest.

  His own power—profound Foundation, tempered by endless sun—seemed thin beside it.

  He sighed inwardly.

  Could he endure?

  No choice remained.

  He struck first.

  Qi surged.

  Thunder Palm blazed forward—heat laced with solar fury.

  The ape met it with a fist like a falling boulder.

  Palm against fist.

  Impact thundered through the cavern.

  Han Sen flew back, crashing against a stone wall, breath stolen, ribs protesting anew though healed.

  The creature’s hide was iron.

  Blackwood staff struck next—full force, thunder crackling.

  Dents formed. No breach.

  Speed was his edge.

  Five Winds unfolded—body flowing like mist through grasping claws.

  He circled, evaded, sought openings.

  But the ape’s power pressed relentlessly.

  Half an hour wore on.

  Breath grew ragged.

  Options dwindled.

  Then memory stirred.

  The shadowed jade dagger—in his pouch, small, unassuming.

  No warrior’s blade.

  More ornament than weapon.

  Yet now his only hope.

  He pivoted—swift behind the ape as it lunged.

  Dagger flashed.

  Silver arc.

  KRAAAASSHHHH!

  Blade carved a deep gash across the creature’s back.

  The ape roared—turning too late.

  No blood flowed.

  Only qi—pure, thick, golden—streamed into the jade.

  Through hilt.

  Through hand.

  Into dantian.

  Han Sen felt strength surge—sudden, intoxicating, like drinking lightning.

  The ape staggered, movements slowing.

  Wound widening.

  Han Sen circled again—faster now.

  Dagger danced—legs, arms, shoulders, belly.

  Shallow cuts.

  Yet qi poured forth—endless river absorbed by shadowed jade.

  The ape weakened with every slice.

  Han Sen stronger.

  Half an hour more.

  The colossal simian swayed—power drained to shadow, eyes dimming with confusion and fading rage.

  Han Sen gathered the remaining qi into the blackwood staff.

  One final Five Thunders strike—precise upon the skull.

  BRUUK!

  The ape fell—heavy as a mountain giving way.

  Body dissolved to dust.

  In its place: a golden orb warm as captured sun, a small mirror of polished bronze reflecting faint cavern light, and a peach-colored cloth soft as dawn mist.

  Han Sen gathered the three.

  White light flared—blinding, familiar.

  When it faded, he stood once more in the familiar forest of the mortal realm.

  The crimson swirl is gone.

  He breathed deep.

  Power hummed richer within—core brighter, edges sharper, closer to true formation.

  The dragon had fed upon the mountain’s shadow.

  And grown.

  Yet victory tasted of ash.

  FuFang Li’s silence lingered in memory.

  The girls’ tears.

  He tightened his grip upon the blackwood staff.

  The path called onward. Stronger now.

  But never strong enough. Not yet.

  Swiftly, Han Sen invoked the Five Winds.

  His body became a streak of motion—light as mist, swift as summer gale—carrying him down the mountain paths toward Tongzhou.

  He swept his gaze across the ruined village as he passed.

  FuFang Li lay silent.

  No smoke rose from hearths.

  No voice called.

  Only wind stirred the ashes.

  The simians were gone.

  Yet so were the people.

  A heavy quiet pressed upon the land, thicker than any storm.

  Han Sen’s heart tightened. He quickened his pace.

  In the time a single stick of incense might burn, he reached the familiar courtyard gate of Kim Tun’s restaurant.

  “Han Sen!” Kim Tun called, hurrying forward, face lined with worry. “You return at last. What happened? Where have you been?”

  Han Sen entered, settling upon a wooden bench beneath the locust tree.

  He spoke quietly of FuFang Li—of shattered homes, of absence, of earth stained crimson and now empty.

  He said nothing of the cavern, the colossal ape, or the treasures claimed in darkness.

  Kim Tun listened, then shook his head slowly, sorrow deepening the lines around his eyes.

  “Without farmers to till the fields, without merchants to bring goods…” he murmured. “Tongzhou’s markets will remain barren. How are people to live?”

  Han Sen bowed his head.

  The weight of failure settled heavier than any wound.

  He excused himself.

  First to the bathhouse—steam rising gently, water warm against skin still marked by faint scars of the previous day.

  The Kang sisters had washed his robes with care, but the trousers he had worn into battle remained stiff with dried blood and earth.

  He changed into fresh garments—simple, clean, smelling faintly of sun-dried cotton.

  Then he withdrew to the training chamber.

  A small room at the back of the house—high window casting dim, tranquil light, floor worn smooth by years of footsteps now absent.

  Han Sen closed the door.

  Sat upon the cool stone. And breathed.

  The dragon, returned from shadow, carried new strength—and new burdens.

  FuFang Li’s silence echoed within him.

  The world grew darker.

  And Phoenix Mountain kept its ancient watch.

  While far beyond the horizon, greater storms gathered.

  up to Chapter 56 right now, plus enjoy exclusive AI illustrations and historical/philosophical background notes, please consider supporting me on Patreon.

  patreon.com/fourseasonsadvancechapters